


the raiders from samsø

by AlphaBanana



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vikings, Arranged Marriage, Entirely Self-Indulgent, Eventual Smut, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:00:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28055046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaBanana/pseuds/AlphaBanana
Summary: 841AD. Adam, son of Count Jacques of Rouen, is captured by raiders from Samsø - it is only on the recommendation of the Jarl’s daughter, Sofe, that he is spared at all, to be ransomed back to his father.(Rating will change later in the fic)
Relationships: Detective/Adam du Mortain, Female Detective/Adam du Mortain
Comments: 16
Kudos: 49





	1. the dangers of brutal battles

The raiders from Samsø into Rouen grow ever bolder, and Count Jacques sends ever more men to meet them, but like the tide the Normanni come, ever stronger, until finally, he sends his son and heir.

“Do not disappoint me.” His father’s jade-green eyes are piercing as ever, and Adam lowers his own instinctively, instead fixing on the pattern in the woven rug warming the flagstones in the chambers that will one day be his (and there is ice running down his spine at more than the thought of that, of these men, women and children owing their livelihoods to him). Adam dares to raise his eyes, and tries to project a confidence he does not truly feel.

“The men are seasoned, and we know they are coming. I will not fail you.”

Three days later, they have finished setting up the garrison in the town. As Adam is settling for the night, trying to prolong the fire’s warmth to shield against the brutal cold, a woman knocks at his door, brown curls unruly and wild as the smile on her face, and she smiles, catlike and inviting.

“Commander, you must be lonely.” Her voice is a purr, and immediately his hackles rise, even before she lets her shawl fall a little and reveals her décollatage, the curve of her breasts.

“Let me keep you comp—”

“Good night, my lady.” He all but slams the door in her face, his own face flushed from more than the winter winds outside.

**

Adam is a light sleeper, he always has been - and so it is a testament to the skill of the Normanni raiders that he is unaware of their presence until they begin to restrain him.

He manages to strike the one at his right, and there is then a general panic when they realise he is now armed with the dagger from beneath his pillow, and he stabs one of his assailants in the belly, most likely fatally. But there are too many of them, and even armed he is overwhelmed, something heavy hitting the back of his skull.

And then the world is black and cold.

**

When Adam comes to, he can hear the woman who came to him that night, with her lilting tones and laughing eyes, talking with another quieter woman, and he keeps his eyes closed, tries to strain his senses to hear something, _anything_ , that might orient him.

_“I hope he hasn’t been damaged. He called me ma domna, Sofe, not even Thrand—”_

_“_ **_Kristina_ ** _.”_

_“What? Sofe, I like him, he’s nicer than my man - prettier, too.”_

_“We’re_ **_ransoming_ ** _him, he won’t_ **_be_ ** _here long enough for you to like him”_

_“Admit that he is pretty and I’ll leave you alone.”_

_“...”_

_“I’ll take that as a yes. Watch him, I need to talk to Thrand.”_

The woman who had come to him half-bare, Kristina, leaves, and Adam is left with what must be Sofe, and when he can convince his eyes to open fully he sees her, raven-black hair and eyes like the sea in storm, and the eye contact is intense, beyond anything he has ever experienced, making him woozy from more than the blow to his head.

“How much did you hear?” He starts a little when she speaks, now in French and not the tongue of the Normanni, and he tries to stammer a reply, even as he feels more and more lost in her eyes.

“Kristina—she was the one that came to my door. She tried to—”

“Kristina does what she wants.” Sofe interrupts, as uncomfortable as Adam is himself at the thought, and scowls. “We’re going to the Jarl. You speak when spoken to, and you tell the truth. Clear?” Her French is good, if a little flat on the vowels, and he tries valiantly to focus on her voice rather than the way her eyes pierce him to his core.

He fails.

“I—”

She rolls her eyes at his hesitation, and that, at least, is a universal language. “We do not have time for this. Come.”

He is bound, and transported on a cart, and the shame of it may kill him sooner than anything the Jarl has planned for him. He has heard horror stories from the older men of Rouen of what the Normanni do to prisoners, and has never particularly wanted to find out if the rumours were true.

He is dragged to his feet and escorted into the Jarl’s lodge - the warmth from the hearths blooms on his skin, and he nearly collapses with relief before he is shoved on. There are intricate carvings of heathen gods and goddesses making merry, some in carnal positions that make him want to squirm, but he keeps his spine straight and his eyes forward...though he does not miss the small, cautious smile that plays on Sofe’s lips at his discomfort.

And then, he is pushed onto his knees before the Jarl, a huge, raven-bearded man, thick arms corded with muscles that would make the finest of Adam’s soldiers weep with envy, and when he speaks, in one of the many harsh tongues of the Normanni, Adam feels a shiver run down his spine.

 _“Well?”_ The Jarl is an impatient man, tone sharp and clear, and Sofe seems disappointed with whatever she has to report.

_“Nothing so far, father. He seems dazed, still.”_

Adam cannot help but shrink a little at the Jarl’s attention, grey eyes studying every possible weakness, maybe even finding new ones. _“This is Jacque’s finest warrior?”_

_“…This is his son, father.”_

A ripple of surprise passes through the room at Sofe’s words, and he looks up at her from his position on the earthen floor of the hut but her eyes are forward, stormy gaze unwavering as she face’s the Jarl’s rebuke.

 _“His son? Why was I not informed? You should have come at_ **_once_ ** _.”_

_“We came as soon as the tides permitted, father.”_

Adam does not need to know the language to be able to understand the disappointment in the Jarl’s tone, the pleading anguish in hers, and he averts his eyes from the scene, feeling somehow as if he is intruding.

_“What can he tell us?”_

_“He is more use to us as a ransom, Ragnar.”_ A grizzled warrior to the Jarl’s right speaks up, sneering down at his kneeling form, and Adam fights the urge to rise up, then. _“He is but a boy.”_

 _“A boy who will one day be our rival.”_ The Jarl shares Sofe’s pale grey eyes, uses them to their maximum effect as he stares at Adam, stares into his soul, even as he speaks to Sofe. _“Sofe – tell him that he must tell us about the defences.”_

“He wants you to talk about the defences of Rouen.” The longer his defiant silence continues, the more agitated she looks, grey eyes darting around the room and seeing their weapons as keenly as he does. “They—They will hurt you if you do not.”

“Let them.” Defiance is one of his special talents, and he welcomes it here, knows that that is what will save his people, and the stubborn set of his jaw speaks just as loudly as Sofe’s voice entreating the man that must be her father.

_“He will not betray them, father. It is as the elder Eyvindsson said – he is more use to us as a ransom.”_

There is a long silence as the Jarl considers Sofe’s words, then sighs wearily.

 _“Fine_ . _But he is_ **_your_ ** _responsibility. The only thing we will get from him if we give him to the gaoler in this winter is frostbitten fingers.”_

Whatever the Jarl says to her, Sofe’s shoulders sag, before she sets them as firmly as her jaw and drags Adam to his feet.

 _“Fine.”_ To Adam: “Let’s _go_.”

He is led past a stout building which looks like a gaol, where by rights he _should_ be going, instead heading to an isolated house on the outskirts of the settlement, the interior bedecked in furs, with a simple bed and hearthfire.

“This is where we are staying.” Sofe seems almost apologetic, but there is a quiet charm to the simplicity here, and he thinks that he might enjoy living somewhere like this in truth—

Then he registers her words.

“We?” He does not mean his tone to sound so scathing, but the ice there makes her eyes harden like flint.

“You’re my responsibility. For now. If you stay until Spring then you may end up in the gaol. For now, though, the hearth fire will keep you warm as my... _guest_.”

“I see.” He pauses, eyes uncertain, before venturing. “Tha—”

“Don’t thank me yet,” though there is a flush to her cheeks that makes warmth bloom on his own even as she looks away, “there are people who wish you dead. To send a message to the Frenchmen and their weak King.”

“The King is not wea—” A laboured cough, then, and Adam thinks with some alarm that he may well die here anyway, from exposure to the inclement weather.

His cough draws her back to him, eyes alighting on his side and the shallow cut that one of her fellows put there.

“When did you get that?” Her eyes are intense, a quiet kind of worry there, and his mind stutters and stalls before he can work out how to answer.

“I—I don’t remember.”

“Stay there – don’t move.” A pungent smell hits him as she uncorks a jar taken from one of the shelves, makes a face which hardly fills him with confidence, and dips a clean rag in there, with an ease born of practice, and he wonders just how many wounds she has had to tend thus before—

“Hold still.” She lifts up his shirt so she can see the wound more clearly (and something flickers in her eyes that he would be able to ponder more closely if the pain were not building to a crescendo), agony almost blinding him as she presses down firmly with a small, warm, wet rag soaked in the acrid substance. He snarls a French curse at her, only for her to press on the wound still firmer, making him _howl_.

“If you held still and weren’t so _stubborn_ , we’d be done by now.” Adam has not been injured often, but he rather thinks that the nurses who tend to the men under his command are typically less sour with their patients, and something mad possesses him to tell her as such.

“If you were gentler, I would be able to stay still.”

Her nostrils flare and her eyes narrow, and for a moment he thinks she means to leave him to suffer. “If I were gentler, you would be dead.”

But her fingers grow a little more gentle, much good it does him, and the pair of them fall into a stubborn silence, broken only by his moans of pain as more of the substance enters the wound.

_And for a moment, whether it is the pain or the scent of the salve in the air, she seems to shimmer, like one of the goddesses in the Jarl’s hall, and he is transfixed._

She mops his brow, takes care to brush long strands away from his face (and his face _burns_ when long fingers brush his cheeks, and he tries to look away) and props him up on the bed.

“Where will you—” Wounded or no, Adam is a gentleman, and the idea of her being inconvenienced because of him moves beyond the embarrassing into the unthinkable.

She seems untroubled at best. “Anywhere, I don’t care. I’m a light sleeper in any case.”

“I—” Whatever rebuttal or counter-point he had wanted to offer is interrupted by a groan of pain, and she sits next to him on the bed, brow furrowed and lips pursed, grey eyes studying his frame.

“You should try to rest.” A statement which might have been a request on any other lips - on hers, it is a _command_ , and she is clearly used to being obeyed. Catches himself trying to count the freckles on the bridge of her nose, which swim as his eyes unfocus, making new constellations that he must remember to tell Bra—

**

When next he wakes, the sun is high in the sky, she is gone, and he is bundled in furs. Some food has been placed next to him and he reaches for it on instinct before he remembers her words from the last time they spoke ( _there are people who wish you dead_ ) and does not trust it.

She returns, cheeks rosy from the cold as she removes some of her outer furs, and she stops in her tracks when she sees the broth next to him.

“You did not eat.” Adam is hardly a born diplomat, hardly practised at reading people the way his father is, but usually he can see _something_ in others’ eyes. She is inscrutable, as unknowable as the wild snows outside, and he stammers through the pain in his chest.

“I didn’t know if—you said that—”

“Maybe you aren’t stupid after all.”

He bristles at that, lifts up onto his elbows with a wince that turns into a snarl. “ _Excuse_ me?”

A wince twists her lips then, and he feels a small amount of triumph at that, even as he tracks the motion. “I was trying to—never mind.”

A grudging silence settles between them, which neither of them try to break.

And if his eyes drift over the angular lines of her face, the length of her raven hair, her long fingers as they fiddle with one of her many knives, she does not mark it.

_And if her eyes drift over his nose, his lips, the burnished gold of his hair as she tends to him in sleep, he need never know._


	2. adorned with gold

**ADAM**

Adam has never known a woman so stubborn.

He does not know where she has slept in the last two weeks, while the ransom has been negotiated. She will not tell him, insisting that he stay in her bed, swaddled in furs like a babe while his wound is yet healing, while the ice floes are yet melting, while they sit and stare into each other’s eyes (or, conversely, try not to).

Sometimes they talk. He tells her of his siblings, and she smiles wistfully, even as she idly runs practised fingertips along the blade of her favourite knife.

> “You must love them.” A quiet wonder was in her voice at that, and he smiled more easily than he had since he was Philippe and Bram’s age.
> 
> “More than anything.”

And she, in turn, tells him of her brother.

> “He was much older than me, born from the Jarl’s first wife. His son, Ragnar, will be Jarl when my father dies.”
> 
> “And you will be--”
> 
> “Married, I assume. To shore up alliances and weaken the factions that say our family should not rule.” Her voice was flat, and he did not need to be a genius, or a born diplomat like his father, to know that marriage was not what she wanted for herself. Felt a flush of admiration at that, at having the strength to _know_ oneself and pursue that goal, no matter the obstacles.
> 
> “Your brother, how did he—”
> 
> “Fighting your father’s forces along the coast from Rouen.” She saw the guilty look on his face and smiled a little, more warmly than she ever had before, and he was stunned into silence for a moment, the firelight glinting in eyes as powerful as a winter’s storm, as soft as dappled sunlight on the North Sea. “I don’t blame your father. Magnus should have known better.”

One day (and he knows not how long it has been nor, when he thinks of her eyes piercing him to his soul or deceptively gentle hands, does he much care), angry Normanni rangers come to Sofe’s hut and ask for him to be punished. From the broken snatches of speech he can hear from Sofe’s bed, Asvard, the man he had stabbed on the night of the raid, had, despite valiant struggle, perished in the night, from an infection in the wound Adam dealt him. And Sofe defends Adam, with her words and her body, standing in between him and the men whose eyes trace the muscles taut under his skin, as if he were prey to hunt.

 _“He is dangerous.”_ One man, small and slight, starts to speak, raising both hands to Sofe as if to placate her, before another pushes him to the side and looms over Sofe, and he starts to move to her aid before she gestures sharply at him.

 _“He has not tried to lay a finger on me, which is more than I can say for many of you.”_ Sofe’s tone is scathing but her eyes remain watchful, darting between the men assembled at her door, even as the larger man raises a hand to touch her cheek, lips twisted in a cruel imitation of a smile.

 _“You are getting soft, Sofe. Too easily swayed by pretty boys. You need a man to get you in line_ — _”_

And then her favourite knife, long and wicked sharp, whips out, practised and confident, and she has cut the man’s finger off, easier than blinking. The men, instead of preparing to mutiny, disperse, apparently satisfied by whatever _message_ she had hoped to send.

She does not talk to him for the rest of the day, even when he tries to thank her for defending him, for placing _herself_ at risk (and he cannot think on _that_ too long, cannot lose himself in thinking about how he should have been able to protect—). Instead, she steals glances at him that he cannot parse when she is not busying herself with other tasks. And in the evening, her fingers are a little rougher than before on his wound, even as something guilty flashes, quick as lightning, across her face when he tries to suppress his grunts.

**

The ransom date arrives, and Sofe comes to him draped in rich, red wools which hug her frame, wild raven tresses bound in intricate braids which frame her features, and hands him a delicately woven tunic.

“You should wear this.”

He pauses, eyes still tracing the braids around her face, before he shakes himself out of his stupor.

“Thank you.”

Their fingers touch when he reaches for the tunic, and he cannot help but draw closer, watch as her lips part slightly—

“I should—” He feels suddenly shy, even though she has already seen some of his torso when she has tended to his wounds, and she offers him a similar blush before letting her tongue dart out to wet her lips.

“Of course. I’ll—I’ll wait for you outside.”

Adam grabs her hand, and she is _cold_ as he had suspected. “You can stay, just—just turn around.”

Sofe turns as directed, and there is a small smile playing on her lips even now that he realises he wants to keep seeing, even after—

Instead of dwelling on that, Adam smiles unseen behind her. “I’ll not have it said that I made you freeze.”

“A true gentleman.” Even with her back to him he can hear the mirth in her voice, simmering under the surface, and he grins as he brings the fine tunic over his head and straightens it, marvelling at the stitching.

“This is too much, I—” Sofe turns cautiously, then approaches him and seems to like what she sees, running a finger over the intricate embroidery over his heart

“Consider it a gift. To remind you of—”

“As if I could ever forget.”

Her hand is on his chest, and he cannot resist the urge to place his own over hers. Struggles to breathe for a moment as he looks deep into her eyes, before he is saved by Kristina knocking at the door before he could think of ki—

Adam clears his throat, though it is Sofe who removes her hand from his hold, and the loss feels like an _ache_. Adam is the first to leave, Sofe following close behind him with Kristina (who is mercifully covered, for once, though the mischief in her eyes as she whispers to Sofe makes his spine tense).

His father holds his arms out to him, and Adam allows the foreign embrace, even as his eyes dart to the weapons, poorly-hidden, of the men from Rouen.

“Father—”

“It would be easiest now - with their womenfolk present.” Adam lets his horror at the thought show on his face.

“You would have us break our word?”

“They broke the non-aggression pact when they took you - my son.” Jacques’ hand cups Adam’s cheek, but Adam moves away, and the façade of warmth in his father’s eyes is discarded.

“I’ll not have their blood on my hands.” Adam argues, and he can start to hear the Normanni grow restless, and they too have spotted the weapons.

“There must be some recompense.” Jacques is a proud man, and the slight of having his son and heir taken from his bed still pricks at him even now. Adam has always been able to tell.

“There need be none. All is well. They have been good to me, tended my wounds.” Were it not so cold, he would have happily shown his father Sofe’s handiwork.

_“Sofe, what are they saying?”_

Adam can hear the Jarl behind him, can almost see Sofe’s mouth open and close as she tries to diffuse the tensions in the Normanni camp.

 _“Jacques wants recompense. For the kidnapping.”_ A murmur of discontent springs up, before she speaks next and he hears his name amongst the jumble. _“Adam is trying to_ —”

“Do any of these savages speak French?” Jacques’ voice is loud, too loud, and Adam draws himself to his true height, scowls and feels a small tinge of his own pride as his father recoils.

“They are not _savages_ , they—”

“I do.” Sofe steps forward, and his father stops whatever retort had been on his tongue to look at her, as a man looks at a woman - and even if Adam can hardly blame him (Adam has been doing much the same thing for weeks), he is still selfishly pleased when his father’s eyes turn cool and businesslike once more.

“My lady.”

“My lord.” The curtsy is a little rusty, but Adam cannot help but think she is graceful as a dancer, every movement sublime—

“Please tell the Jarl that we require some recompense.”

Sofe turns to her father with a wince, as if she already knows the answer. _“He insists on the recompense, father.”_

 _“Well, we have nothing we can give.”_ The Jarl pauses, and Sofe’s eyes seem to widen, she opens her mouth to say something but sees the look on the Jarl’s face and stops.

 _“As you wish, father.”_ Whatever Sofe says, the Jarl seems surprised, eyes flicking between Sofe and Adam with something approaching a smile.

“We live on what we produce, we have no other material goods to offer. The Jarl humbly offers his daughter in marriage.”

Jacques looks over at Adam with resignation, no doubt thinking of all the myriad times and ways Adam has refused such offers in the past. “That—”

“That is agreeable.” Adam cuts his father off, with his eyes fixed on Sofe, and she keeps her eyes fixed on him, even as she tells her father that Adam has agreed.

Sofe moves to talk to her father, then, as Jacques pulls him to one side. “You are sure?”

Adam nods emphatically, cannot help but smile at the thought of her. “She has been good to me. If recompense must be offered, and this is the form they offer it—”

“You have never—”

Adam averts his eyes, looks instead at where she is talking with her father, and she is so lovely he could _die_ —

“No matter.” His father seems to take pity on him then, and makes a show of bowing to the Jarl, who returns the gesture.

**

Two months later, as the snows begin to thaw, the Normanni ships come into port at Rouen, and there is no fear in the people’s eyes, only curiosity, as they try to get a glimpse of Sofe from atop her mare.

Adam observes the procession anxiously from the window of their keep at the centre of town, before he makes his way to the gates to welcome them.

The elder Eyvindsson, with his sneering eyes, is present at the head of the party instead of the Jarl. Sofe is veiled behind him, and Adam’s nerves are soothed somewhat by her voice sounding out from behind Eyvindsson.

“My father is unwell, and is being attended by his heirs. Hrothgar Eyvindsson, our master-at-arms, will give me to be wed in his stead.”

 _“They are not worthy_ —” Eyvindsson starts to grumble but Sofe cuts him off smoothly, with an air born of practice.

“He is eager to confirm the arrangement between our peoples.”

Jacques smiles, warm and inviting. “As are we, my lady.” For a split second, Adam envies his father and his easy courtesies, even as he cranes his neck to _see_ her, trying to catch even a small glimpse. Adam will not be able to speak to Sofe until after the wedding - the only reason she is being seen at all is because she must act as her own translator.

Adam tries to smile at her, and she tries to smile back. And then she is whisked away by his mother and her entourage, and he stands stock still, like a fool, watching her.

Eyvindsson’s eyes soften a fraction, and he claps a hand on Adam’s shoulder with enough force to make a smaller man stumble.

 _“If she breathes one word of hurt_ —” Adam does not need to know the words, can _feel_ their meaning in the hand that squeezes his shoulder like a vice, tighter by the second. And he does not need to use words to answer, managing a tight, solemn nod which seems to satisfy the warrior...for now, at least.

**

The wedding day approaches, and the castle is bustling with excitement. Adam was fitted for his doublet almost directly upon his return home, emerald velvet sent for years ago from Al-Andalus for the purpose of his wedding, and Adam hears rumours that his mother wept for joy when she was told there would finally be need of it.

Now, Adam stands and waits outside the church door, and for a moment he fears that she will not arrive, that he will be left waiting, as he has waited for months—

But then Sofe is there, resplendent in sapphire silks (a wedding gift from Adam’s mother), and Adam tries to school his features into something other than an heretical _awe_ \- they _are_ entering church, after all.

They walk side by side, and already this feels as it should, as everything always should have. Dimly, Adam is aware of the scripture being read, of the assertions by Eyvindsson and his father that the marriage can proceed, and the vows to protect and defend her, cherishing her and forsaking all others, trip off his tongue. He watches her tremble slightly as she recites her own vows, resists the urge to take her hands in his as she tells him that she will be his counselor and solace, that she will cleave unto him in sickness and in health (he notes wryly that she does not promise to obey him, and he would have found it stranger if she _had_ ).

It is only when Père Michel gives Adam the kiss of peace on his forehead that it occurs to Adam that he will need to kiss Sofe.

A primal kind of fear courses through his veins, and for a moment he stands motionless, looking into grey eyes he could drown in, before he recovers enough of his faculties to kiss her softly, chastely - but even chaste as it is, it sets his heart to pounding, and he worries that she, the congregation, the _world_ can hear it thrum to the rhythm of her lips on his. For her part, she looks dazed - but a slow smile spreads over her lips that he cannot help but mirror, even as they are separated again ahead of the feast.

At the wedding feast itself, she is quiet, and he looks at her in concern, waiting for her to speak in her own time.

“They—they are looking at me.” Sofe seems bashful, somehow, even as Adam brings his hand up to cover hers on the table.

“Why should they not?” Adam would look at her all day if he could, if he did not have pleasantries and duties and training and—

“I don’t—I’ve never had people look—” It is only now that Adam realises that it is not embarrassment but _anxiety_ , and a curious kind of fear that will eat at him if he lets it.

“You have. I can guarantee you have.” _How has she not had people look at her?_ Adam finds it difficult to take his eyes off her, even now that she is his wife.

“What?” Sofe does not seem to understand, and even with her brow furrowed and eyes narrowed she is _beautiful_ , and it is then that he realises he has not yet told her so.

“You are—”

And then Eyvindsson punches one of his father’s men and all hell breaks loose.

**

Later ( _much_ later, when Adam and his mother have convinced Jacques not to tear the marriage contract asunder, and when Sofe has convinced Eyvindsson and the other Normanni to hold their tongues and keep themselves in check until they depart), they are left alone for the first time in two months, to consummate their marriage.

She looks different, here, in a plain white shift that both conceals and reveals, hair unbound and flowing freely to frame angular features which are—

 _Scared_ . She is _frightened_ of him, and that—that is not—that has _never_ been—

“We—” 

“We should start.” Sofe is matter-of-fact, and climbs into the bed and looks at him expectantly and he—

He _wants_ . For the first time, truly, he _wants_ , but—

But not if she does not wish it. And she may never, given that this was arranged for her, against her will.

“It does not have to be tonight. Or any night, if you do not wish it. Even if I were that kind of man,” and she opens her mouth at that, as if to defend him from himself, and he feels a flush of a warmth he has never had cause to name flood through him at that, “I have seen what your knives can do.”

Sofe swallows, _hard_ , and for a moment he thinks he sees disappointment there - dismisses the notion out of hand. Then a shaky smile. “Thank you.”

A long pause, which Adam breaks when he starts to walk to the door of their chambers, to ask for a servant to prepare other quarters for him when—

“You can still—I mean, we are wed. It would be strange if we didn’t.”

The longer he waits, the more anxious she looks, and he is quite sure that he does not wish to refuse her anything, ever.

And so he climbs into bed with his wife, brushes one finger over her cheekbone gently, before turning to face the opposite wall so he can try to sleep. He fails.


	3. the battle-gear sang

**SOFE**

Gradually, they seek each other’s touch in sleep even if they do not dare to do so during the day.

Adam still falls asleep with his back to her, and that is...nice. Or, at least, she tries to convince herself that it is nice. She  _ had _ wanted to that night, had felt for the first time that she might be desirable to another —

Yet, he was an honourable man, and did not want to force her - Sofe could respect that,  _ does _ respect that, and his attentions had never been anything but respectful—

But no matter his intentions at the start of the night, in the mornings they wake together to see the first light of dawn playing on the other’s features, hear the dawn chorus mingle with the sounds of each other’s heartbeats as they lay with their limbs tangled and their bodies flush against each other. Some mornings, there is a hardness resting against her thigh, clothed in the increasingly heavy fabrics he insists on wearing to bed even in the middle of spring - and on those mornings he almost pushes her off the bed in his haste to disentangle their limbs.

That is the only part of her day that she enjoys.

Jehane, Adam’s mother, tries to teach Sofe more about being a French lady, she truly tries, and Sofe feels a flare of warmth whenever she sees the older woman, the likes of which she barely had a chance to feel for her own mother. But Sofe’s stitches are almost unforgivably crooked, and she does not understand the subtle,  _ sneering _ humour of Jehane’s ladies, and everything she does is  _ wrong _ —

One afternoon, Adam returns from training his men, glistening with sweat and taut enough to make her throat dry with  _ want  _ and, abruptly, it is  _ jealousy _ that flares, unproductive and unwelcome but still very much  _ there _ , and she turns away from his attempt to place a hand on hers with a huff.

“Sofe? What—”

“Why did you not choose one of them?” Sofe scowls, picking at the weave of her sleeping shift, her voice growing ever quieter. “Any one of them would make you a better wife than me.”

For a moment she thinks he has not understood, turns to face him and he is baffled, mouth agape and jade eyes wide in confusion. 

“But I didn’t want them. I never did. I want—”

“What? What do you  _ want _ ?” Sofe is  _ tired _ , so very tired of the games at this court, in this strange land, and for once would like an  _ answer _ . Something like a shadow passes over Adam’s face at her question, and he frowns out of the window, unwilling to even look at her.

“It doesn’t matter what I want. We deal with what we have.”

After he leaves to busy himself with something rather than meet her gaze, she tries to parse what he meant by that. He is as dutiful a son as any she has ever known, she knew that already even before she knew she would marry him - perhaps he had wanted another, and then been forced to marry her? The thought bothers her more than it should, and she sleeps on the divan in the adjoining sitting room that night, leaving him alone in their bed.

Adam wakes her mere hours later, in the early morning, with a smile, even as she groans.

“Sofe, come. I have something to show you.”

Sofe struggles to straighten herself after sleeping crooked, and the pain she feels must have worked its way onto her face before she could hide it, because suddenly his hands are tentative and respectfully light on her shoulders. Sofe has to force herself not to twitch at the touch of his thumbs, strong and firm, working tight knots of muscle loose, and cannot quite stop her moan of satisfaction at the release of tension. It is with a flush staining his high cheekbones that Adam holds a hand out to her and brings her out to the training grounds.

Adam speaks quietly enough to avoid being overheard that Sofe has to lean closer to hear him speak, and the proximity is heady, almost overwhelming.

“You were worried that you—you do not find the life of a French lady to be easy.” The understatement of the century, and she scowls at his impertinence, opens her mouth to speak before he cuts her off.

“So, fight me.”

“What?” Sofe almost swears at him, thinks she must have misunderstood—

But then he is pushing a wooden training sword into her hand with a smile that reveals  _ dimples _ , and she will go to her grave thinking about this man and his  _ fucking _ dimples.

“Fight me as you would in Samsø. I know you can, I saw the way Eyvindsson and the others looked at you when you cut off Kol’s finger.”

And before she can think more about just what he remembers from Samsø (the furs, the smell of bread baking by the fire, her fingertips carding through his hair as he shuddered and moaned through the pain in his sleep) he is raising his sword in a formal duel position, and she mirrors him effortlessly.

There is something almost magical about the way he moves in the soft moonlight, and before long Sofe feels confident enough to meet him, best him even, sometimes, with the wooden sword he has given her.

It becomes another daily tradition. She wakes tangled in his embrace, he pushes her away, then smiles slightly and tells her he will wait for her on the training grounds. Another routine she clings to, when everything else is so different here.

Until one morning, when they have grown proficient enough in their dance that they can press each other harder than before. And Adam, lost in the rhythm of their bodies working in tandem, presses ever forward until he pins her like a butterfly, holds her with his wooden sword beneath her chin and  _ smiles _ .

And Sofe does not care that he has beaten her. Or about anything. All she can see are his lips, pink and parted and panting—

But he made it  _ very _ clear that he did not want that, clear enough that sometimes it stings, like venom under her skin - and so she respects his wishes.

Pushes him away roughly, and throws her wooden sword onto the earth with a clatter. Quietly, she is not sure she will be able to trust herself if he is that close again.

When she has finished her daily humiliation at the hands of Jehane’s ladies-in-waiting, she goes to Adam’s father in supplication and requests simple chambers near enough to Adam’s own to stop tongues wagging but far enough away to  _ stop herself _ —

Jacques raises his eyebrows at the request but does not dismiss it, instead tells his manservant to make the arrangements.

Later that same evening, after Mass, she parts ways with Adam and a small, barely perceptible flinch ripples through his shoulders before he continues down the rest of the hallway alone. When he turns to bid her goodnight, he is golden, wreathed in the ambient glow of the torches along the hallway and in his chambers, and he is beautiful enough to make her heart break.

**

Sleeping alone is miserable. Or perhaps it is simply that  _ Sofe _ is miserable, and anything she does becomes miserable by extension.

Paradoxically, her muscles ache from a  _ lack _ of use, but it is the brief glimpses she catches of Adam that make her ache the most. He eats separately on most occasions, with his father. Jehane tries to provide comfort, but cannot possibly know where to start.

One evening, after a few weeks (perhaps - the days drift into each other when there is nothing to make her blood sing the way  _ he _ did), Jacques sends for Sofe, and she has no choice but to answer his summons, avoiding Philippe and Bram as they play in the corridors.

Once in front of Jacques, it quickly becomes clear that he is not sure how to broach the subject - or, at least, not delicately.

“It...it has been brought to my attention that—that thus far your union with Adam has remained unconsummated. Is that correct?”

“Yes.” A small, mortified whisper is all she is able to manage - but she could not have expected anything different from Jacques, not when the purpose of marriage is to procreate (or, at least, so says Père Michel) and she is married to his heir, the future of his house resting in the balance.

“And is he...is he lacking?” Jacques’ voice is gentle, but Sofe reacts as if she has been slapped, recoiling from the suggestion and raising dark eyebrows almost as much as her voice.

“No!”

Both of them sit a little while in silence, surprised at the force of her outburst.

“...no, he is not lacking. Not in any way.”  _ Far from it, and that’s the whole fucking problem _ .

“Then what  _ is  _ the problem?” Jacques sounds almost bored, and Sofe feels childish irritation bubble up in her chest, averts her eyes from his, which are both like and unlike Adam’s. It is clear that Adam inherited his father’s colouring, gold and jade rich enough to dazzle even the Gods of Samsø - but Adam has never looked at her like this, cold and calculating and appraising her like she is a business venture that is in danger of making a loss.

“He doesn’t want me. I’m not—”  _ Enough of a lady, good enough, beautiful enough _ —

“Bullshit.” For someone who decried her own people as  _ savages _ , the curse word strikes as clearly as a blow, and Sofe is speechless.

Even after a few moments, the most she can manage is one word, incredulous and gaping. “Pardon?”

“That’s bullshit, he can’t take his eyes off of you.” Jacques rolls his eyes, looks less a Count and more a bored master-at-arms, and sits down to more easily look Sofe in the eye.

“Do you know how many women we paraded in front of him? The sister of King  _ Æthelstan _ —a  _ King’s sister _ —was all but throwing herself at his feet, and he barely noticed.”

Sofe cannot help but wonder what  _ exactly _ the point is of telling her how every maiden within the kingdom (and, apparently, without), even those of royal blood, desires her husband enough to debase themselves, but by then Jacques has continued.

“But he was meek as a lamb at the thought of taking you to wife.”

Sofe shakes her head almost before Jacques has finished, already sure that that cannot—that whatever Jacques is implying  _ cannot  _ be true. “He knew what it would mean for our peoples, it’s not—he hardly  _ wanted _ —”

“Adam does not do  _ anything _ he does not wish to. He never has, God damn him.”

Later, alone in her cold, empty chambers, she looks at herself in the looking glass Jehane gifted her, tries to see what Jacques says Adam sees and  _ cannot _ . But—

But there is  _ something _ in Adam’s eyes when he looks at her, that she cannot deny - something pained that makes her ache for him, for  _ both _ of them. And when they would  _ spar _ , his eyes shone in a way that had made her knees  _ weak _ .

And so, she goes to him.


	4. a reward of gold treasures (NSFW)

**SOFE**

Braving the outer corridor in naught but her sleeping shift, feeling bolder than she ever has, Sofe goes to Adam in  _ their _ chamber, her heart skipping a little at the pleased surprise, quickly squashed, that flares in jade eyes.

“My chambers are cold,” is the only explanation she offers, and his eyebrow quirks slightly before he nods slowly, gesturing to the bed and moving along so she can lay next to him.

The seconds seem to pass by like minutes, and they are close enough to be touching and yet —

_ And yet _ .

Sofe reaches out and touches Adam’s forearm gently, runs deft fingers along the line of his muscle, almost laughing when he starts next to her, breath hitching and eyes wide.

“Is that...alright?” The knot of anxiety that had been coiling in her stomach since she had resolved to—to come to him tonight eases slightly but is still tight in her belly, roiling like snakes. It eases a little more when he nods firmly, jade eyes darting between her fingers and her lips.

She runs her fingertips up to his shoulders and across the muscled planes of his chest, clothed in the linen shirt he wears to sleep, his eyes fluttering shut even as his throat works to let the words escape.

“What are you—” The words are barely a whisper, as if he does not want to break the moment, fragile like glass between them, but they strike like a whip and her fingers freeze in place over his heart.

“I —” Sofe feels foolish, as if she is  _ playing _ at being worldly, and wants to curl into herself and forget the world, even as she just about manages to choke out her own words. “I can stop—”

“No!” And abruptly, she almost wants to giggle at his reply, so close to her own, earlier in his father’s office, but she focuses on the moment, on her fingers on his chest, on the way his right hand hovers next to her hip, his left twitching in the sheets.

“No, that’s not what I—I merely—” Now there is  _ concern _ in his eyes, and that is even  _ worse _ , and her courage is in danger of failing at the last hurdle.

Steels herself and looks into his eyes - but the emotions she finds there are intoxicating,  _ overwhelming _ , and whatever resolve she had been able to build up crumbles away into nothing as she tries not to drown in him.

“I —I want—”

“Sofe, do not feel forced—” His sigh is explosive, one hand rubbing over his mouth and chin, and Sofe’s eyes track the motion anxiously. “My father will cope with disappointment, he has had me for a son for nearly thirty years.”

“I don’t feel forc—I’ve wanted to —” The words stick in her throat and she scowls, tries to turn away but his hand is on her cheek, forcing her to meet his gaze. “ I don’t know how to tell you—”

“Tell me what?”

Sofe presses her lips to Adam’s, and  _ this _ feels right, their lips dancing to music only they know, and when she pulls away he tries to chase her, pants slightly into her mouth, lips glistening and eyes alight with reflections from the torches on the walls and something warmer still.

“That.” Sofe flushes then, despite herself, braces herself for another of his quiet rejections, just as before —

His arm looping around her waist is her  only warning as he kisses her again, and it is as if a dam has burst, the force of months of longing spilling out between them, and he is her anchor through it all.

Adam’s hold is tight - but not so tight that she cannot swing a leg over to straddle him, seeking to be closer, ever closer, even if she knows in her very  _ soul  _ that it will never be close enough. His gasp, open-mouthed and awestruck, gives her the courage she needs.

She is thankful for the warm summer air as she removes her shift over her head, even as she feels her muscles tighten as he looks at her with a reverence that would make Père Michel scowl, his only displeasure showing when she tries to cover herself.

“Sofe—” Adam’s voice is strained, and his hand moves up to hold her wrist, lightly but firmly, fingers trembling slightly against the sensitive skin at the inside of her wrist.

“I want—after so long, I—” Adam waits a moment, and the more Sofe is here, in his lap (distantly, she shrieks at herself, at her boldness, but she cannot bring herself to care), the more confident she becomes. She lets her arms fall as his gaze burns her to ashes in front of him, and it is with a shock that she realises that he is hard against her inner thigh, heat flooding over her at the realisation.

“Adam, I—” Once more Sofe’s faculties feel as if they are seizing up, freezing like longboats in ice floes, and in lieu of coherent speech she pours all her remaining energy into coherent  _ action _ , rocking in his lap and feeling a buzz as his jaw drops and his eyes flutter shut for a moment.

When he opens them, the jade has been swallowed almost completely with black, and she feels heat flare on her skin and pool in her belly and beyond at the thought that he  _ wants _ her, in a way that the wise women in Samsø had always warned her men would, all-consuming and passionate. She tugs at his shirt, feeling the breath catch in her throat in turn when he reveals himself to her fully in one smooth motion.

He is muscled like a maiden’s fantasy, with sharp lines that she wants to taste with her tongue, and she is shocked at herself, shocked that she is capable of such thoughts at all, she has never before even  _ considered _ —and then he bucks up into her, and even clothed as it is his length sends shockwaves skittering through her body that chase any coherent thought away.

And  _ then _ , in an instant, Sofe is on her back on the bed, and her thighs begin to close instinctively but he is between them, around them, everywhere that his hands and lips can reach. His lips pull moans and sighs from deep within her than no other soul has ever heard as he burns a path down her body, tracing the muscles in her abdomen with his tongue, before looking up at her, eyes stern enough to make her flush.

“Tell me to stop and I will.” Adam promises, voice earnest as he watches for her assent - once given, with an emphatic nod, he lowers his head to her core.

When his lips seal around her nub, Sofe almost rips out a handful of the spun gold she has admired despite herself since first laying eyes on him, and she claps a hand over her mouth to stifle a loud moan, whimpering when he stops stock still against her (and she does not miss the way his eyes darken further still when she begs him incoherently in a mixture of tongues, her voice thick with  _ want _ ).

“I want to hear you.” Adam’s voice is rough and deep, sending vibrations pulsing through her core, and Sofe peels her hand from her mouth and digs her nails into his shoulder blade instead.

“The others — ”

“Don’t matter. Just you and me.” Adam’s voice is broken, now, almost desperate, and that fact alone makes her moan, and his eyes flutter shut for a moment as if it is heaven’s chorus.

He redoubles his efforts, moves thick fingers inside her and keeps his mouth fixed at her centre until her muscles start to shake. The noises that leave her grow ever more sinful but she cannot bring herself to care, not when they spur him on to drive her to ever higher peaks of pleasure and —

And ecstasy feels like cresting a wave, and Sofe rides the wave, rocks her hips in harmony with the hand that still moves at a leisurely pace between her thighs. His eyes have never left her, fixed to her face as he watches her pleasure with rapt attention, and she feels weak for a moment at the sight of him licking his lips, still slick with her.

Silence for a moment, and then—

“I—” Sofe realises with a start that she does not even  _ know  _ the words (it has hardly been something that his mother has been willing to teach her in their French lessons), and she flushes, feeling foolish for a moment.

“May—I would—would you—” Each attempt at speech from Adam stops short, and Sofe feels a little bolder when she realises that he does not have the words any more than she does, and she runs her fingers over his cheekbones, feels him shiver, watches the muscle in his jaw twitch.

“ _ Yes _ .”

Fingers run up her sides as if she will disappear if he stops touching her, and when they reach her jawline he returns his lips to hers. Sofe starts slightly despite herself when she realises that she can taste  _ herself _ as well as him on his tongue. Instead she busies herself with freeing him from the confines of his breeches and  _ oh _ , he— _ oh _ .

Her surprise must show on her face, as Adam kisses her cheeks gently to reassure her, even as her fingers brush against him when she pushes the fabric away and down muscled thighs.

“We don’t have to—if it is too much we can—” Adam’s words are rushed, stumbled somehow, and instead of trying to reply with words Sofe lets her fingers touch him more firmly now, and his jaw slackens at that, even as he buries his head in the crook of her shoulder.

“Sofe—”

Sofe decides she likes the way her name sounds on Adam’s tongue, exhaled on a sigh, and she swallows his moans in a bruising kiss, even as her strokes grow more confident. She tugs on his lips with her teeth as he pulls away to breathe, and her own breath hitches as he presses both their bodies into the mattress, seeking her warmth.

“I want—” Her own voice is broken, shards sharp in her throat as she tries to urge him to where she needs him, lifts her hips slightly to seek friction and feels the tremor that runs through his bicep when he feels her slick against him.

“I—” Adam’s exhale is shaky, cheeks flushed and eyes wide and uncertain until he sees her nod. He takes himself in hand as he pushes into her inch by inch, and before long the burn gives way to a kind of  _ relief _ , Sofe clutching him closer as he rocks into her.

Adam mutters her name into her skin like a litany, lips moving up and down her throat with each thrust, and Sofe feels tears prick at the corners of her eyes, blinks them away as she feels whole,  _ full _ , body, heart and soul.

He sees her tears - of course he does. This man who has never failed to  _ see _ her truly, in a way that no one else has in a quarter-century. His movements stop instantly, and he mistakes her whine of frustration for a whine of pain, and starts to withdraw until she links her ankles behind his hips, pulling him in deeper than before, making them both groan.

“It’s—it’s ok, I—ah—I’m  _ happy _ .”

His smile is blinding, and his lips are almost unbearably soft against her own, then against her cheek as he rocks into her once more, and their dance starts again.

Before much longer, his thrusts become erratic, and he brings his thumb down to press against her centre, and the sensation makes her moan, low and deep. His gasp feels like victory, his pace quickening in response to her own rapture, and  _ that _ sends her careening, keening, fingers clutching in the hair at the nape of his neck as an anchor. Her only conscious thought through the haze is to keep him close, and she curls up around him as he follows her over the edge, his hips jerking in her hold as he empties himself into her with a low moan.

Now that she has him, Sofe cannot bear to let him go, hands running over the muscles in his chest and back and feeling him tremble under her touch.

Eventually, Adam pulls out with another, quieter moan and collapses next to her, and for a moment he is totally still, face buried in the feather mattress as he calms his breathing, and Sofe exhales when he looks up, not having realised she was holding her breath.

He draws her wordlessly into the circle of his arms and kisses the crown of her head, planting kisses on her cheeks and kissing her deeply, and when he grins he flashes dimples that she cannot help but stroke. And they stay, together.


End file.
